Fireworks
by whitelilly
Summary: John Watson wants to forget... but it's so, so hard. Sherlock/John


Chapter One: The Glitter in the Sky

Sherlock Holmes ran up the stairs towards his flat, the cheering that echoed through the streets outside grinding on his nerves outrageously. New years... He detested this time of year. A time of drunken kisses and sexual mistakes. A time when the police where at full force stopping rapes and assaults.

__

'You more likely to be raped, murdered, attacked or commit suicide at this time of year then any other.'

For some deranged reason it made him smile. He hated the holidays. The commercial pointlessness that was Christmas and Valentines day. And it was completely pointless. People filling themselves with thoughts of tinsel and candy hearts when they could be saving important details about the world around them, the _people _around them.

Still, Sherlock didn't dwell on it. He was only one man after all and despite his brothers position in the British government he was pretty certain that he wouldn't be able to cancel every pointless occasion in the UK's ever busy calendar.

He shoved his key into the door of his flat and turned it, the loud click letting him know everything was go. He strutted into the living room, catching a brief glance of a bright firework exploding over the city through the window. The loud series of bangs followed shortly and the detective shook his head with a sigh. Sherlock haphazardly threw his coat onto the sofa and wandered over to desk, pulling his laptop open and quickly typing his password in.

It was then his senses began to notice the absence of a certain ex-army doctor that should have certainly been present.

It had been three weeks since their unfortunate encounter with Moriarty at the swimming pool where little Carl Powers died. John Watson had been somewhat... Distant since that memorable evening out. He'd assumed it was due to the break up with Sarah. After all, there where very few woman in the world who would date a man who nearly died at least three times a month.

Sherlock was almost certain that when people 'broke up' it caused them to become upset in every sense of word. Withdrawn, distressed etc. But he knew John Watson. Probably better then the good doctor knew himself. John had had many relationships in the past, all of which had ended. He'd survived horrendous injuries. One red headed doctor could not cause his flat mate to have such a sudden shift in personality.

He left his laptop to load and wondered into the kitchen. A half made mug of tea sat on the side board and the full bottle of milk lay spilt on the lino below his feet. He had the sudden surge of panic that Moriarty had been back, but no. Not so soon. It's like the maniac had said. Sherlock and John where far to much fun to lose just yet. So the detective silently began to creep up the stairs, casually peeking into the bathroom and not even bothering to glance into his own dwellings (he had the sneaking suspicion that John was slightly afraid of what he might find in the detectives bedroom). There was only one place left. John's room.

Sherlock slowly moved towards it. John liked to keep his room away from the detective. Possibly because it was the only place in the house that wasn't completely trashed, more likely because Sherlock knew John has a box of photos from his army days under his bed that he liked to keep away from the detective. But still, exceptionally circumstances and all. Sherlock walked up to the door and turned the handle allowing it to slowly creek open. The fire works went off outside again, lighting up the sky in a serious of glittered explosions.

He couldn't see John. Which was highly unexpected.

The bed was tussled and his private pictures of friends and loved once scattered across the floor as if they where junk. Sherlock peered around just as another loud bang filled the night air. A series of crackles followed.

Then the thought struck Sherlock like a lightning bolt in a starry night sky.

John was a soldier...

The detective wondered over to the bed and pulled the covers back, getting down onto his knees and peering under.

There he is.

John Watson.

His friend. His flat mate. His colleague.

His eyes are squeezed shut. Cheeks damp. Hands over his ears.

"...John?" The only answer he received was another series of bangs from outside. "John? It's me... Sherlock?" The ex-army doctor slowly uncurled from his self made ball and opened one eye slowly.

"Get down Sherlock! They'll get you..."

Sherlock frowned. John was clearly having some sort flash back. The doctor never spoke about his life in the army. It was like he was trying to wipe it from memory. Sherlock might not have understood how other people worked but he knew it wasn't easy to get rid of things one had seen.

Yet again, the sky exploded in a shower of light.

"Sherlock... The sky is exploding... I can hear it... I'm back in the desert... What are you doing here?"

The detective frowned and pulled himself under the bed with his flat mate, lying at his side and peering at his pale face silently.

"You're not there John... You here, at Baker Street. You're home..."

The doctor didn't seem to hear and instead closed his eyes once more and covered his ears. It was like his mind was on another planet.

No, not another planet. Sherlock thought, wondering what to do. Afghanistan...

He slowly raised a hand and placed it on his flat mates shuddering shoulder, delivering a light squeeze.

"John Watson. You survive war, you survive Moriarty and a few fireworks cause you to crumble like school boy being bullied." The detective sighed and pulled his flat mate to his chest. "I suppose this is what comforting consists of. Making ones friends feel like they aren't alone?" His question was met with the shaking breaths of John. They stayed in silence like that for a few minutes until the clock struck twelve and the last series of outrages explosions from outside rung through the night.

Then, all was silent.

Sherlock watched, slightly mesmerised, as John seemed to reawaken. His gaze clearing and his shuddering stilled.

"Sherlock?"

"John."

"What..."

"You seem to have had some form of flashback. Causing you to go into shock and escape into what can only be described as a rather shoddy make shift bunker." John thought for a second before nodding slowly. "More then likely recent events have aided this episode."

"Yeah..." John murmured, eyeing his shaking hand lightly. "I'm... A little embarrassed."

"Embarrassment is pointless. What's done is done." John paused for a second before nodding. He silently pulled himself out from under the bed. Sherlock soon followed, both men stood there, neither really knowing what to say as they peered at everything in the room beside each other.

"So..." John ran a hand over his tear stained face and sighed. "I'll go put the kettle on."

"Coffee," Sherlock replied with a smirk. "Two sugars."

* * *

John wasn't sure what had happened. One second he'd been watching the news the next second he was back there. The sound of gun fire filling his ears and vibrating of their drums. He'd just wanted to be some where dark. Some where safe where no one could get him.

The next thing he knew he was under his bed with Sherlock hovering next to him. He wasn't entirely sure what had happened. All he knew was that he was shaking all over and his face was damp with tears. His own tears shockingly enough.

He stood, making himself a cup of tea and Sherlock a coffee. Personally he wanted to completely forget about what had just happened.

He had the feeling that Sherlock wouldn't let it be. After all, he rarely did.

"So..." The detective said confidently, weaving into the kitchen.

"Don't," John thrust the cup towards his flat mate and sighed. "Lets just... Not talk about this. As in ever again. It was just a little relapse. It happens to most soldiers."

"Yes, but you aren't most soldiers are you John? It's also clear that the war isn't all that is causing this."

"I swear to god, if you start this whole Moriarty business again I'll snap. We didn't die did we? Thanks to Mycroft." Sherlock grimaced and folded his arms. "I know you don't like the fact that Mycroft basically saved us but he did. You should thank him."

"I'd rather spend the afternoon with mother. Which wont be happening any time soon."

John rolled his eyes and sipped at his tea contentedly.

"Fine. Then lets make a deal. I wont nag you over Mycroft and you wont nag me about what just happened."

Sherlock paused for a second and eyed the doctor up and down.

"Fine. Although it's only in your best interest that you should talk about..."

"Sherlock!"

"Yes, yes. Deal. Fine. Marvellous."

"Thank you."

John walked into the living room and up the stairs, leaving Sherlock to wonder. Wonder why it was that he suddenly felt like he had that night at the pool. That night John had been in so much danger. That night he'd almost lost the only person he could refer to as friend.

* * *

John trudged down stairs the next day, his head heavy and eyes tired. The previous nights activities had had more of an effect on him then he'd previous thought. He felt worn out and so very tired he could barely keep his eyes open. All he wanted to do was crash into his chair and watch what ever crap the TV was spurting that Saturday morning.

What he certainly didn't want was to be greeted by a woman, smiling at him with her bright red lips. She was stood in the centre of room as if awaiting his arrival, her long dark hair falling past her shoulders and pencil skirt tight against her skin.

"Ah, Doctor Watson I presume?" John raised an eyebrow.

"Ur... Yeah?"

"Pleasure."

"Morning John," Sherlock emerged from the kitchen, his mug in hand and a frown on his face. "You've met Miss Adler."

"I guess... I guess you could say that."

"Irene Adler," she smirked, holding out a perfectly manicured hand. "Charmed. No need to introduce yourself doctor I know all about you."

"I've no doubt you do," Sherlock chimed. "I'll ask again. What are you doing here?"

The woman put her hands against her hips and flicked her hair back over her shoulders.

"Don't get like that with me Sherlock. I've heard all about you're recent run in with the law. Perhaps my favourite detective is getting himself into more then he handle?" Sherlock scoffed and crouched on the armchair, sipping broadly at his drink.

"Your concern is noted Irene, although not graciously received. Perhaps the criminal world has gotten so dull that the only way you can amuse yourself is by pestering me?"

Irene smiled and winked at John seductively.

"He's just angry because he never caught me. That's what they say you know. Irene Adler. The only person to slip though Sherlocks nimlble fingers."

"You didn't slip through my fingers. Nimble or other whys. You crimes are so dull Irene I cannot bring myself to allow my full attention to focus on what you are doing."

"Dull?" Irene laughed loudly, her pearly white teeth shining between her painted lips. "Oh, we both know that isn't true! We know you cant stay away don't we Sherlock?" She picked up her suit jacket from the sofa and pulled it on slowly. "Well, now I see you're OK I can leave cant I?" She moved towards Johns and left a peck on his cheek. "Again, it was a pleasure John."

"Leave. Now." Sherlock growled. John watched as she sauntered out of the flat.

"What the bloody hell was that?" John asked frowning at his flat mate.

"Possibly the most infuriating woman in the world at not my problem at the moment."

"I thought you said you where married to your work?"

"I am."

"So..."

"So you shouldn't assume things John. You know the old saying." The doctor chuckled and flicked the television on. BBC News 24 sprung to life.

"... Riots continue in North Korea over the recent election results..."

"Mycroft," Sherlock sighed. John chuckled lightly to himself before turning his attention once against to the TV. He was thankful that Sherlock seemed to be sticking with their deal. Nothing was mentioned and nothing was brought up. Which John was absolutely fine with. Better then fine actually. He was slightly surprised that Sherlock hadn't badgered him about it.

It was then John's phone vibrated on the table next to him. He picked it up silently, his eyes never leaving the television. He pressed the button and opened the text he'd just received.

Sherlock just text me his thanks for the business at the swimming pool. Is he feeling OK?

MH

John's gaze snapped back up to his flat mate who was peering at his cautiously.

"Perhaps we can discuss it now?"

* * *

A/N

Well, I couldn't keep away could I? I enjoy writing Sherlock and John slash far to much. But I hope you like this :) please tell me what you think! Do you have tumblr? May I recommend following me?

I give updates, you can ask me questions about the story and perhaps you have something you wish me to write? Either way, the links on my profile page!

Well, as I said, please review!

Lots of love

White Lilly

xXxXxXxXx


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